Veiled Empire

by Nathan Garrison

  Down this hallway, they turned right into a double set of doors. Jasside’s eyes widened as she saw what awaited them.

  “Ah,” Vashodia said. “Still fresh.”

  Emperor Rekaj lay in the middle of the room. Dead. His feet were severed from his legs. A pool of blood surrounded his neck. Jasside realized she had stopped moving, and trotted ahead to catch up with Vashodia. Together, they came to stand over the body.

  Vashodia motioned her backwards. “Not too close. We don’t want the samples mixing.”

  “What?”

  The mierothi ignored her, bending over double to inspect Rekaj. “The throat was it? Fitting, I suppose. Yes, the symmetry will be quite nice, and the scar will be a constant reminder. Would you not agree?”

  Jasside’s head spun. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Why are we even here?”

  Vashodia stepped closer, reaching up to pat Jasside on the cheek. Her claws pressed dimples into her skin. “Why, girl, this is your reward.”

  Reward?

  Vashodia’s hand moved across her face in a blur.

  At first, Jasside felt nothing. Only confusion. Then, fire and pain bloomed in a line across the front of her neck. She heard the trickle of blood—her blood—as it dripped down onto her chest.

  Jasside fell to her knees, hands grasping for her throat. Darkness closed in on her vision.

  YANDUMAR YANKED HIS head back as the tip of a spear jabbed toward him. He swung upward with one of his bastard swords, pushing the spear away. His other sword thrust forward. The Imperial soldier, a man almost as large as himself, gritted his teeth as the blade plunged into his chest. His bloody hand reached up on towards the hilt, scratching at Yandumar’s fingers.

  A sudden shift in the battlefield drove Quake forward. Yandumar could either hold on to the blade and risk losing his arm, or let go.

  Reluctantly, his fingers uncurled. He pressed his knees together to keep upright atop the horse.

  Scorch me, I loved that sword!

  He’d had it since his days as an Elite, over thirty years ago. Harridan Chant had given the pair to him upon the announcement of Kaiera’s third pregnancy. He felt a twinge of pain at its loss.

  He looked up and realized what had caused the shift. Imperial forces were retreating. The lines before him melted away to the northwest, and for the first time, he found himself looking upon his newest allies: the rebels of Agoritha.

  A cheer arose, echoed on both sides. It warmed him, somewhat, to see that his efforts had not been in vain. Though the rebels had lost nearly half their number, the revolution had been there in time to save them from annihilation.

  The archers had been able to fire from horseback, loosing a few dozen volleys as he maneuvered into position. They hadn’t been very accurate, but then they hadn’t needed to be. The Imperials were in pursuit of the rebels, and few even turned to thwart the revolution. And when only one man in four carried a shield, the tactic had proven quite effective at thinning their numbers.

  He rode forward over the field of dead as the Imperials raised dust in their retreat. They still outnumbered them heavily, and the revolution support coming on foot was still at least a quarter toll out. They had no reason he could see to pull back now.

  Something doesn’t feel right.

  Eventually, the dust cleared. Yandumar, mounted far in front of his own forces, was the first to see them.

  The Imperial army split around another group, this clustered in a mob with a dozen figures standing before it. Yandumar fished for his far-sight, then brought it to his eye. The dozen figures were mierothi, and the mob behind them was another army.

  But this was not an army of men.

  They were . . . creatures.

  No—not creatures. Monsters.

  Thirty thousand beastly forms stood stamping and growling on the field. Their bodies were twisted amalgamations—half-man, half-beast, all nightmare. He could see no pattern to their appearance. Some seemed formed from bears, others from bulls, still others from lions, with a dozen more varieties. The only thing they had in common was their grotesque nature. And their size. Each was easily thrice the mass of an oxen.

  Yandumar’s chest tightened. Memories surfaced of his trips through the tunnel. Memories of tormented screams that emanated from side chambers, chilling him to the bone. Whispers of experiments performed there in the deep, in the dark. Unholy growls of things not made by any sane god.

  Those same growls sounded now.

  Yandumar wept.

  The mierothi all gestured forward, and the mob surged into motion. Yandumar gasped as he took in how fast they were closing.

  He turned, looking to the city wall. Turned back to the creatures. Closed his eyes.

  We’re not gonna make it.

  But it’s our only chance.

  He wheeled Quake anyway, galloping toward his army. He pulled in as much breath as he could hold, then let it out in a shout.

  “RETREAT!”

  GILSHAMED CASTED, BLASTING another hole in the wall before them. He gestured at the figures behind him and dashed through.

  There were two dozen now. He picked them up wherever he went. He found them—stewards, servants, bed slaves—all mostly huddling in groups, too frightened to even move. His charisma was enough to get their feet shuffling, but few were able to mutter anything coherent. He had to find his own way.

  Voren’s power pushed out all thought, all reason, and all Gilshamed could do was revert to instinct. He was surprised to find that instinct meant to protect and to lead. Even now, as annihilation pressed down from every corner, he was glad to find a part of himself he had thought lost. A part of which he was not ashamed.

  He glanced back at the figures following him blindly.

  I just wish I knew where the abyss I was going.

  But he had no choice. He could not turn back. He could only charge forward, praying that the old military mantra was true.

  That any decision was better than no decision at all.

  He entered a place that looked to have been barracks for the palace guardsmen as the writhing chaos closed in. The long chamber was full of beds and footlockers. He led his party to the far end. He energized and threw a spell at the wall.

  Stone and mortar crumbled, filling the room with dust. Gilshamed looked through, expecting to see into the chamber beyond.

  Instead, all he could see was bedrock.

  His heart skipped a beat.

  He realized, then, his mistake. At first, he had sought to go upwards, for he could fly to safety himself. But as soon as he’d taken responsibility for the scribes, he had unconsciously sought the ground floor. It appeared he had gone too far down.

  A burst of power knocked against the wall opposite, like a harbinger of doom. Another, and the wall tumbled inwards.

  Gilshamed cast his gaze over his sorry-looking followers as they huddled together against the wall. “I am sorry. I . . . I tried.”

  The looks they returned were not as he expected. There was no hate, no anger, no accusation. Only thanks. And . . . pity.

  I do not deserve such from you. I, who have led you to your deaths, deserve only scorn.

  A ray of power snaked through the room. Gilshamed summoned all the power he could, casting a protective net over the group. He knew, though, that it would eventually fail.

  Heat intensified on his back as death drew closer.

  And now, my love, we can be together again. I am so sorry it took this long for me to join you.

  He closed his eyes, welcoming the end . . .

  The heat and light vanished. Gilshamed turned.

  Two figures stood in the room. A man and a woman. By their weapons and armor, he recognized them for what they were.

  Hardohl.

  Gilshamed had never been so glad to see one.

 
As they stepped towards Voren, voiding another ray, Gilshamed saw the door on the side wall from which they had entered. Normally hidden, it was visible now only because the door had been left open.

  He turned to his wards, pointing towards the opening. “Up! Move! Let’s go!”

  It took them a moment to realize what was happening. That their deaths had been postponed. Gilshamed reached a hand to help the last few to their feet, then led them, scrambling, towards salvation.

  He nearly tripped as he felt Voren’s power change. It contracted, falling in on itself. The rays shooting out in all directions vanished. Gilshamed looked towards his old friend and found himself frozen.

  A tidal wave of catastrophe marked his path. Standing in the center, alone, looking so tiny, so pale, stood his kin. A man he had once called brother. Gilshamed realized that not an ounce of sorcery flowed from him. Voren was completely vulnerable.

  Then, with a trembling hand, Voren reached into his robe. He extracted another vial of blood and crushed it into his palm. Gilshamed had missed the implications the first time. Now, however, he recognized exactly what was happening.

  Blood scything! But that requires living souls to power. How the Abyss . . . ?

  Then . . . he knew.

  And everything changed.

  Power flooded into Voren with renewed vehemence, but its flavor had changed. No longer was it chaotic, unfocused. It now growled with intent.

  A hundred thousand infinitesimal strands latched onto stones and bricks, pieces of wood and broken furniture, bit of metal and glass. A cloud of debris lifted into the air.

  Only two beats had passed. The Hardohl, quick as ever, had closed half the distance to Voren. But it did not matter. Objects began flying into the room at speeds to make the wind howl in jealousy. The two figures had no place to dodge. Projectiles were everywhere.

  Gilshamed threw up another shield, this one kinetic. The Hardohl took the brunt of the attack, but hundreds of object still sailed towards Gilshamed and his wards. The shield held, each object bouncing off and clattering to the ground, but he strained with each passing beat to keep it in place. All thoughts of escape vanished as he poured everything he had into staying alive.

  He spared a glance for the Hardohl, feeling a stab of agony in his soul. They moved forward, towards death, even as shrapnel ripped their bodies to shreds. Blood spilled from each of a hundred wounds, spinning sickeningly through the air. And still, step by step, the two advanced.

  They cannot take much more. When they die, the power will be free to resume its cataclysm. We will not last a beat past their final breaths.

  A small part of him chuckled at the thought. Somehow, Voren and the power he wielded had become separate entities in his mind. The latter he hated, for no matter its source, it had taken a mind of its own. A mind with evil intent.

  For the former, however, he had at last found the kinship that he had once felt, so long ago now it seemed a dream.

  You did not kill her, old friend. You saved her. For that, I love you. For that, you will always be known as the greatest of our people’s heroes.

  Gilshamed clung to the thought as both Hardohl stumbled to their knees.

  A slight motion—barely discernible in the chaos swirling around the chamber—caught his attention. It was a figure, stepping through the side door. She stood barely up to Gilshamed’s waist and was dressed in dark, flowing robes. In her hands she held a pair of metal objects. They appeared to his eyes as spheres cut in half and splayed open with hollow centers.

  Around her swirled a maelstrom of darkwisps.

  Sorcery shot out from her, a shield across the face of the room, protecting the two Hardohl and everything behind them. The figure giggled, then looked over her shoulder at him.

  “It’s been awhile, Gilshamed,” Vashodia said. “Did you miss me?”

  Gilshamed, despite her aid, cringed in dread.

  Vashodia turned back and began marching towards Voren. Somehow, impossibly, her sorcery began pushing back at the other.

  And where the two powers met, even gods would fear to tread.

  MEVON STUMBLED THROUGH the palace, feeling as if gravity had shifted sideways. The abhorrent sorcery was now joined by another, point and counterpoint in a debate from which there could be no clear victor. No longer in waves, the twin powers pulled at him ceaselessly. Mevon did his best to ignore them both. He silenced his instinct and trudged away from the clash of magic.

  I did it. I won. My justice is delivered, and my nemesis is no more.

  The thought was supposed to bring him peace. It did not. Victory had always accompanied a surge of joy, but this time was different. He had known it would be but hoped otherwise. Hoped that he had changed enough that he would no longer crave blood and death inflicted by his own hands. Hoped that the justice he had served would stand in the gaping hole he had created himself.

  What, now, is the point of me?

  His mind ran through scenarios of an empire at peace. In none of them could he find a fitting place for himself. His kind existed, he now realized, for the sole purpose of keeping rampant sorcery in check. The purpose that the mierothi had subverted for the last nineteen hundred years.

  The purpose that, even now, he resisted.

  It is not enough. Such things will balance themselves out in the end.

  Mevon did not bother to direct his feet, electing instead to let them wander where they willed. He was not surprised to find himself back in the chamber where he had faced the Blade Cabal, standing a step inside the doorway. He could still see bits of their armor sticking out of the rubble, flashes of dead skin, the glint of their weapons.

  All the while, the palace writhed under the pressure of the competing powers.

  Wind swept by his face, brushing back his hair. He looked up. A wound in the roof exposed the exterior of the palace, and through it streamed bright morning sunlight. Mevon closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, cherishing the taste of clean air and the warmth of the light on his face.

  He thought of all he had lost. All he had gained. All the evil he had done, and undone. All the good he had destroyed and helped to flourish.

  On the scales of his life, he judged himself.

  His body went numb.

  Justice fell from his limp fingertips, clattering onto the floor.

  None, save the gods themselves, are more guilty of wrongdoing than I.

  The clashing powers reached a crescendo, and a quake rocked his entire world to its foundation.

  A stray beam of power scythed through a wall high above him, turning it molten. Mevon lifted his eyes as it exploded into countless white-hot fragments, falling down on the room like lava . . .

  JASSIDE OPENED HER eyes with a gasp, the gesture proving that she was, in fact, not dead.

  Again.

  Gods, I hope this doesn’t get to be a habit.

  She sat up, groaning, and rubbed her forehead. A wave of dizziness warned her not to ascend another hand higher. She felt cramped and bloated. Itchiness pervaded everywhere, seeming to come from within her body, but even as she sat to clear her head, the sensation evaporated. A few marks later, she had finally composed herself enough and wobbled to her feet.

  In a flood of panic, she recalled her last moments of consciousness.

  Her heart sped up, and her breath came ragged. She stroked across her neck, feeling a line of uneven skin: scar tissue. She looked down, remembering the blood.

  Her dress was clean, as were her hands. Not a spot of red. She looked to where she had lain. The expected blood pool was absent.

  Did I imagine it all?

  Her gaze shifted to the body of the emperor.

  Jasside distinctly remembered the dark stain beneath his head when she had first come in. It, too, was gone. The corpse had changed as well. Pale, shriveled, features sunken, his wounds clean and dry, Rek
aj appeared as though every last drop of fluid had been sucked out of his body.

  Where it had all gone, though, Jasside could not say.

  And now, just as her body’s senses came to in increments, another sense rushed to its renewal. The powers that raged seemed to slam into her like a hammer. Still quite disoriented, Jasside felt as though they were right on top of her. On instinct, she energized . . .

  . . . and staggered as alien power flooded into her.

  Jasside’s lips parted, a sigh of pleasure passing through the gap. She pulled in more power. As much as she could hold.

  Her father had not been considered strong among the daeloth, and she’d inherited less than half of his capacity. The weakest of full mierothi possessed at least twenty times her natural strength.

  What she held now was a hundredfold what she could before.

  “Vashodia.”

  The word came out not as a curse but as a whisper of adoration. Veneration, even. Jasside drew the line before worship, however. Such a sin, even in a moment such as this, would be unforgivable.

  Jasside knew what Vashodia had done, and by that act she understood the mierothi girl better. Perhaps not fully—can anyone but God ever truly know someone?—but enough to know that she would follow her to the ends of the world. And beyond.

  She remembered the promise she’d made to Yandumar as they entered the city. She skipped out of the room and began searching for Mevon.

  DRAEVENUS STUMBLED FORWARD as the power that held him at bay suddenly winked out of existence.

  It can’t be over. Not so easily as that.

  Rather than rush forward, he crept, wary for the trap he was sure would spring at any moment. He stalked in silence, not casting, not even energizing. Nothing to draw attention to himself. The perfect hunter. In two beats, he was within the sphere that had been pushing back at him.

  No going back. . .

  The power returned. Angry. Malicious. Blinding. Draevenus braced himself for the wave that would, at the least, knock him back. At worst, kill him.